Close Company
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: AU: Mental Acuity, #1. *Felicity has a problem. Oliver is about to have a bigger one.* Another way Oliver and Felicity could have met, this time involving police cases, fake psychics, and a whole lot of frustration. Written for TheBookJumper's Olicity Hiatus Fic-A-Thon. Prompt: at odds. Complete.


**Title: Close Company  
Word Count: 5521**

 **Notes:** This is a hot mess.

It is also, 100% bushlaboo's fault. She talked about pitting Going Mental's Felicity against Cat in the Cradle's Oliver, and now here we are with a resounding hot mess of tension. I swear to God I've never written anything like this in my entire life, but Oliver and Felicity had _very_ distinct ideas about what they wanted to do.

This takes inspiration from The Mentalist and Psych, but you don't have to know either of those. It wildly deviates from both. In some ways, though, this is a nod to my Going Mental fic and Pineapple Investigations series, even though it's separate from both of those.

A quick shout-out to my friend melsanfo, the guiding saint of ace writers traveling in unfamiliar territory. :P I basically threw this at her like, "HALP I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY HANDS," and we both lived to tell the tale. So thank you, O great allosexual Mel, for your guiding wisdom and grace. ;)

Also I'm gonna apologize in advance because Oliver is a complete rake. With that being said, I'm also very fond of him.

Thank you guys for sticking around to read this. If you are so inclined, I also appreciate any reviews. :) Thank you!

* * *

Felicity has never really given much thought to committing a homicide before today.

It's strange that she hasn't, now that she thinks about it. As a consultant for the FBI Major Crimes unit, she sees the results of homicide every day. She sees their methods, and, most of the time, she simply rolls her eyes and thinks of how stupid their choices are. Hiding a body in a culvert? That doesn't scream murder _at all_. Stabbing someone with a butcher knife seventy times? _That's_ subtle. But today, however, she's starting to fully understand _a crime of rage_ for the very first time.

She'd very much like to murder the SCPD's consultant.

As she crosses her arms to watch the _utter bullshit_ in front of her, a blonde knocks her shoulder against Felicity's. "Take it easy, Smoak," Sara advises in a low voice. Though too young for a Special Agent in Charge, SAC Sara Lance is all that and more. In some ways, Felicity is thankful for her presence; Sara is the closest thing the consultant has to a friend. "It's gonna take five seconds for all of them to realize he's a fraud."

It's meant to be comforting, but it only sours her mood further. As the more gullible members of her team flock around the so-called psychic, Felicity knows it isn't going to be that easy. He's _good_ —probably as good as her, if she's being honest about it. Whereas he hides his talent for observation in a cheeky smile and a vision, Felicity uses hers for what it is. While he swindles people out of millions, Felicity chooses to work for crap pay and an insurance plan that doesn't include dental. He's flash and pizazz, but she's subtle and methodical. Such is the nature of opposites: one the white knight, one the black king, but both a fair match for one another.

That doesn't make it any easier to _like_ someone who is the antithesis of everything she believes in.

In some ways, Oliver Queen reminds her of a peacock. He parades around in too-expensive suits, claiming psychic visions when they're based on fact she can just as easily see with her own two eyes. But when push comes to shove, _every damn one_ of them ignores her because _he's_ the one with the visions from the "other side"—wherever the hell that is. He thinks he's special because his daddy has a little money. Robert Queen probably spent a lifetime drilling perfection into his son; she met the man twice before his demise, and he could barely take a breath before reminding everyone his precious son has an IQ of 179.

Though she doesn't want to, she has to sympathize a little with him. Felicity knows what childhood must have been like for poor Oliver Queen, growing up in a home where nothing short of perfection was tolerated. Her father pushed Felicity to her limits—not for glory, but for _money_. Her father embodied the carny creed: _if you're not with the show, you're a mark_. Felicity walked away from that life in search of something better, and found clarity in her work as a consultant. Anyone off the street could tell you that Oliver Queen is looking for acceptance he never earned from his father, but her search is for meaning and purpose that allows her to sleep at night. Apparently Oliver has no such problems.

As if sensing the direction of her thoughts, his eyes lock onto hers from across the room. She watches his slow appraisal of her figure, eyes shifting downward before rising back up. Good; that's why she wore the tight dress when she realized she'd be working with Oliver Queen. She throws him a flirty smile, all the while thinking how lovely it will be to destroy him. Professionally, of course.

Finally she answers her friend's statement, eyes never leaving Oliver's. "No, they won't," she disagrees, though her tone is brighter than it should be. "A guy like that thrives on attention. He's too smart to screw up, and he'll do whatever it takes to make sure he's in the limelight." Oliver throws her a smile, and she flips her hair over her shoulder before adding, "He's good, but I'm better."

Sara grins, patting Felicity's shoulder. "That's my girl." With a wink, she adds, "When you hand his ass to him, make sure I'm there to see it, okay?"

The fake psychic in question is already moving through the crowd by the time Felicity promises to do so; if everything goes according to plan, everyone will be present when she humiliates him. Until then, she'll have to play nice.

 _Relatively_ nice.

He winks at her when he draws close, but Oliver Queen turns those annoyingly gorgeous blue eyes on Sara instead. "Hi, I'm Oliver Queen," he declares with a smile that oozes trouble. Felicity doesn't give him the satisfaction of surprise; they both know he's there for her, and this is just another manipulation tactic. "Psychic consultant for the SCPD."

His charms are wasted on the FBI agent. "I know who you are," she declares with a huff, "and you know who I am, so let's skip the charades." Sara rolls her eyes. "I also know what you're here for. My sister's the DA here, and it isn't a well-kept secret that you've slept with almost every woman in this office." Holding up her left hand, she points to the ring on her third finger with her right. "I'm very happily married, so you're wasting your time." She winks at Felicity before sliding away, managing to add over her shoulder. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go call my wife."

Shrugging off the rejection, the psychic consultant only reaches for a glass, filling it at the water cooler behind them. "Fishing with the wrong bait," he explains to Felicity with a lift of his shoulder, that… _infuriating_ smile still intact. She refrains from rolling her eyes; he couldn't be more obvious if he tried. He's smart enough to have noticed the background on Sara's phone is of her and Nyssa. It's just a hook, a ruse. "You're the consultant for the FBI, right? Felicity Smoak? I'm Oliver." He offers a hand.

Never in a million years will she admit the way her insides flutter at the way he says her name. Taking the offered hand, Felicity replies, "That's me."

Instead of shaking her hand, he brushes his lips against her knuckles. For the first time, she gapes at him; _that_ she wasn't expecting. It's infuriating—more so because it's also lovely at the same time. Asshole. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Felicity," he mutters against her hand before releasing it. "I look forward to working with you." Not nearly as much as he thinks he does, Felicity thinks before suppressing a grin. He leans into her space. "I am curious, though… no one has told me what you do here. So what do you do, Felicity?"

If he says her name like that one more time, she's going to punch him. Or kiss him. It's hard to tell which anymore. Damn this infuriating, _stupidly_ handsome Oliver and his ability to tangle her up in knots. "I do what you do," she answers slowly, with a smirk, "only better." His eyes widen for a moment in surprise, and her smile becomes genuine. "I'm naturally observant and skilled at reading people, just like you are. But _unlike_ you, I don't have to turn those talents into a dog-and-pony show to do my job."

He nods solemnly, as if _she's_ the pathetic one. "There are always cynics," he assures her. This time Felicity can't hold back the eye roll. "But, if you give me the chance, I can prove to you that what I have is a gift." His expression burns with sincerity. Felicity wonders if he's practiced that in the mirror. "I'm not a charlatan, Felicity. I was born with a talent, and it's my duty to use it to help people. If you give me your hand, I can show you." He holds out his in an offer. "May I?"

Felicity counts to five before placing her hand in his. It won't do to seem too eager. After all, most of her plan hinges upon giving Oliver Queen just enough rope to hang himself. He makes a show of reading the lines in her palm, callused fingertips drawing along the creases there.

When he meets her eyes, it's with a well-rehearsed look of revelation. "The spirits are weak in the negativity of doubt," he declares, to which Felicity snorts, "but I'm getting general ideas. You're quick to smile, but behind that lies pain and suffering." He releases her palm to cup her face, and she stutters out a breath as he closes his eyes. "You're a lapsed Jew. On your mother's side, of course. Your father didn't believe in any higher power other than himself, did he?" Well, at least he has a copy of her file. Maybe Oliver isn't as useless as he seems. "He molded you to be like him, but your mother took care of that. Took you away from him, so he couldn't hurt you anymore."

He sighs, as if feeling her pain. Please; Felicity was a better con than that at age ten. "Your life is solitary and you like that. Your relationships have been filled with mistakes, heartache, and regret. You and your mother aren't close, and you haven't talked to your father since the day he walked out of your life. You've learned to depend on yourself, and that works for you. But every once in a while, when the night comes creeping in, you actually get lonely." He leans in to whisper with a wicked grin and dilated pupils, "I'd be glad to keep you company tonight."

Felicity's eyes flick to his lips before she glances away. No, not a good rabbit hole to chase. Still, it's hard to deny that he's an attractive man and while terminally single, Felicity is both straight and breathing. "That's a good read," she agrees, breathless when staggering back a step. The bastard has the nerve to grin like a cat who just got a taste of a canary. Little does this cat know that she's a falcon with claws of her own. "But it only proves you read my file." She crosses her arms. "Are you familiar with the saying, 'Hard work beats talent when talent fails to work hard'? That's what _you_ are, Oliver: talent that fails to work hard. You have a skill, and you're so used to no one challenging you that you've grown lazy."

She assesses him for a fraction of a second. "If you had any training whatsoever, you would have been able to pull up more than just general ideas." She waves a hand at him. "Take you, for instance. I met your father years ago." _That_ piques his attention. "No one could get a word in edgewise while he was busy bragging about how brilliant you are." Oliver at least has the modesty to look away. "Robert Queen was a man who took pride only in his own successes. So if he was talking about how wonderful you are, he must have felt he had something to do with it." Her head tilts to the side. "He didn't tolerate failure, did he? Demanded nothing short of impossible. He was hard on you because you could be useful to him." She waves a hand in the air. "From that, I deduce you're very close to your mother."

He opens his mouth to speak, but Felicity doesn't allow him. "But there's a part of you that's still looking for the approval he never gave you," she continues. "You want acceptance from authority, which is why you're here with the police." She nods toward the corner, to where Captain Lance stands. "That's where he comes in, isn't it? Captain Lance is your stand-in for that.

"But there's more to it, Oliver," she declares. "As much as you loved your father, you _hated_ him. Love and hate keep close company—two sides of the same coin. So part of you wants to destroy all the things he ever said about you by pretending to be something you're not. You know he'd roll over in his grave to see you play psychic, so that's why you do it. After all those years of being controlled by daddy dearest, you spend every day of your life flipping him a giant middle finger."

Queen chuckles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Maybe he struck a nerve. Good. He struck one of hers first. "In doing so, you're miserable." She motions to his suit, but she doesn't fail to notice how good he looks in it. "If you weren't, you'd take more pride in dressing up in one of your fancy suits." She brushes a speck of dust off his lapel. "Your pocket square is wrinkled, your shoes are scuffed, and your pants are creased. I'm guessing someone else takes pride in having your suits made."

She glances down at the tailoring. "The style and color is more modern, so I'm guessing it's your sister." His eyes go wide, and she points to it. "Your surprise just confirmed it for me. She coordinates your closet because you have no interest in fashion—your socks say that for me."

"My _socks?_ " Oliver repeats blankly.

Motioning to them, Felicity replies, "I think that's the only part of you that's real. In any sort of situation that restricts individuality, the best mavericks find ways to express who they are." She motions down at his socks. "Your dress socks have little foxes on them." She thinks about that a moment longer. "Though, I have to admit, that paints a picture, too, doesn't it? A few of the qualities that have been associated with the fox since the dawn of time has been slyness, cunning, and trickery."

As he does nothing but gape at her, Felicity pats his cheek. "I'll let you in on a little known secret." She leans in to whisper, "Your IQ might be one-seventy-nine, but mine is one-eighty-seven. Don't make the mistake of thinking you're the smartest person in the room." She slides a hand down his lapel, tempted to both push him away and pull him closer. "In the spirit of your fishing metaphors, you have to know when to fish or cut bait, Mr. Queen. I suggest you leave now with your dignity intact." She leans up to whisper against his jaw, "Because I will be more than pleased to take it from you."

Winking, she walks away with one final parting shot: "By the way? Sara is bisexual. You _have_ the right bait. You just don't know how to use it."

* * *

One sentence is enough to make Oliver realize the truth.

Wading through police reports—over Diggle's shoulder, of course; he can't be seen reading those—finally pays off as he sits in an oversized chair, contemplating the case. The last piece of the puzzle falls right into his lap as always—and all before the prim-and-proper FBI consultant could get her little hands on it.

That makes him think, briefly, of the things he'd like to have her hands wrapped around.

Instead of allowing that thought to continue, Oliver rises to his feet in a sudden rush, letting the chair fall over behind him. The noise brings all eyes to him, and he glances around to make sure he has all the attention he needs. Every one of them stares in rapt fascination. Good.

Except one, anyway. Felicity Smoak only rolls her eyes.

How he'd like to solve this case and send that little minx on her way. From day one she flirted with him across the room, only to draw him in and call him a fraud. Worse than that, she pulled a cold read on him so good he'd think _she_ was the psychic, all before warning him that she will destroy his professional career. So far she hasn't made good on those threats, so he makes sure to remind her there's no evidence to find to expose him.

He winks at her from across the room before holding his hands out. "There's a presence here," he declares. "I can feel the spirits trying to tell me something." He closes his eyes in concentration. "I'm seeing… a forest. Or a grove of some kind. I can sense Adam there." The six-year-old's mother gasps, and he bites back a grin. Winning definitely agrees with Oliver Queen—and he's glad for any opportunity to show up that self-righteous consultant with the fantastic legs. "I can see him running through the woods behind the manor. Someone is chasing him and—"

Maybe he jumped the gun a little because for now, that's all he has. Until they explore the seventeen acres behind the house, he's lost. "No, spirits, don't go! I need to know more! What happened to him?" He opens his eyes, glancing around the room. "Can anyone else sense the connection?"

It's an innocent question when he dives in feet first like this, like his information is a little faulty. No one ever answers because _no one_ can answer. There are no spirits, so of course no one feels that connection between them.

But this time a small voice in the back of the room declares, "Actually, I think I can."

Oliver whirls at the sound of Felicity's voice, watching her with wide eyes. Her own are just as wide, as if she can't believe it herself. She holds her hands out in front of her, palms face up. "I… don't know why, but I can feel their presence."

Several of their coworkers turn to whisper among themselves, and he distinctly hears Digg mutter, _I thought she wasn't psychic_. But the most telling of all is the way Sara Lance's lips curve up in a wicked smile at her partner's very unusual actions.

Felicity Smoak is stealing his spotlight.

"My mother has the gift," she continues slowly. "She mostly reads tarot cards, but she's been known to communicate with the other side." Sorrow washes over her expression. "I… I used to have the gift as a child, but, like most of us, I lost the ability as I grew up. Even so, I can still feel a spiritual presence." Her eyes open, landing on Oliver at once. She has the audacity to wink at him. "Now that he's opened a path, I can sense a higher presence."

Oliver snorts. The only higher presence in the room is her ego. He could stop her from stealing his thunder, but instead, he'd rather watch her make a fool of herself. "Adam is alive," she declares abruptly. She walks over to his mother, taking her hands. "I can see your son, Mrs. Carlson. He's safe, I promise." The woman chokes on a sob. "I can see him running, but not from someone, as this so-called spiritualist claimed." She flashes cold eyes on Oliver, a morbid smile of satisfaction on her face as she bats her eyelashes at him. "Even an amateur psychic could have sensed that."

Instead of challenging her, Oliver only crosses his arms. Felicity has yet to give them anything substantial. The _real_ amateur will be found out soon enough. "I see him looking for a place to run free—Adam does love the outdoors, doesn't he?" She breaks contact with the child's mother, closing her eyes as if in concentration. "So of course he took his best friend with him."

Her hands go to her head. "The images are so fast I can't see what happens," she declares in an agonized voice. "I can feel his presence leave your home, Mrs. Carlson. I can feel him go east, to the stream through the middle of your property. He went…. North, I think. Upstream. If you follow the edge of the creek, it comes to a small cottage with a waterwheel. _That's_ where he'll be, locked in, but safe and sound."

"Who took him?" Mrs. Carlson asks.

Oliver sinks into his chair to watch the show unfold. No doubt Felicity is going to fake her way out of this one—she's already made her in by saying her gift is weak. Instead, she only answers, "Why, his mother, of course."

Everyone turns to face Mrs. Carlson, who declares, "I didn't do it! Why would I take my baby?"

"Not you," Mrs. Carlson, not you," Felicity assures her with a gentle voice. "Not his biological mother. His _real_ mother." She rounds on the nanny next to her. "Isn't that right, Enid?" The woman gapes, open-mouthed, as do most of the cops. Oliver just rolls his eyes. "You've devoted your life to raising children, haven't you? You love kids, but I sense you can't have any of your own." She places her hand to her abdomen. From his studies in psychology, even Oliver knows what that means: a mother estranged from her child. Maybe the pious little consultant took a shot in the dark—and hit the bull's eye.

"And why should _she_ have Adam?" the consultant continues. "She only gave him to you to raise, anyway! Adam, who loves you like you're his mother, anyway! So you _should_ have taken him—he's _your_ son, isn't he?" Her face falls into that stony expression. "Or are you just a sad, pathetic woman who stole a child away from his mother?"

"Adam is _my_ son!" Enid answers. She jabs a finger at the child's mother. " _She_ didn't love him—she just gave him to me to raise _for_ her! I took him so I could keep him safe!"

Felicity cries out, gripping her head in agony. "East from the manor. The cabin along the river from the waterwheel. _That's_ where you'll find him." She doubles over, gasping. "I can't… I can't keep the connection much longer." She rises to her feet, reaching out as though trying to find a wall to lean against. Before she can though, the blonde consultant fakes her collapse, and Captain Lance catches her before she hits the floor.

"Thank you," Oliver hears her say over the new commotion. Lance growls something else, and she insists, "I'm fine. Just… just tired." He helps her to her feet, and she thanks him again.

A moment later, she's back on her yellow stilettos again. Her red dress flounces as she makes purposeful strides to Oliver. When she reaches him, Oliver watches her pretend to stumble again, falling into him with a hand on his chest. His arm goes around her instinctively, and the cutout just below her breastbone gives him an _excellent_ view from this angle.

Instead of letting him go, she smooths down his lapel with a hand. Her crimson lips twist into an arrogant smirk that shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "I hope you were taking notes, _Oliver_ ," Felicity says in a low voice, biting down on his name as though it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. "That's how a _real_ professional does the job."

She moves to walk away, but Oliver catches her arm, spinning her back into him. "They still have to find the kid, _Fe-lic-i-ty_ ," he counters, drawing out her name syllable by syllable. Her eyes darken as she licks her bottom lip. She's going to be the death of him—either with these mind games or with sheer lust. Or maybe he'll finally snap and kill her one day. It's too soon to tell. "You haven't proved anything yet," he reminds her in a snarl.

Felicity scoffs a laugh. "I don't need to wait for the results to know I'm better than _you_ ," she replies. With a fluttery wave, an innocent smile, and murder in her eyes, she turns and walks away. There's an extra swing in her hips, and Oliver's eyes track the motion.

Oh, how he loves to watch her leave.

Three hours, a massive search team, and an arrest warrant later, a little boy is returned to his mother. Oliver seethes because there's _no way_ she could have known it. _He_ didn't know about that. None of them had walked the grounds because there hadn't been any traffic out that far for _decades_. The entire time they had searched the house, Felicity had been in plain sight. Unless she had a bird's eye view—

The thought takes him to the nearest laptop. He swipes it and ducks into an alcove, logging in with his partner's credentials. John will be pissed if Oliver does it again, but there's more at play than he thought. It takes him a few minutes to find a geo-imaging program, but after typing in the Carlsons' address, he scans along the stream with a methodical eye. It takes him two minutes before he stops. There. The barest hint of a roof between the trees, something brown against the water anyone else would have mistaken for a tree.

"Son of a bitch," he curses under his breath.

Though he'd never say it aloud, Felicity _is_ better than him.

"I told you, Oliver," a voice says behind him. Goddamn Felicity Smoak. Her hands fall on his shoulders as she leans down to whisper in his ear, "Hard work beats talent, when talent fails to work hard. And you'll always be a lazy, spoiled, _rich_ brat who will take the easy bait without wondering if it's dangling from a hook."

It takes him a moment to realize the implications of her words. She played him. Felicity Smoak and her 187 IQ played him like a banjo at an Ozark hoedown. She wasn't flirting with him three days ago; she was baiting a trap. All she had to do is call him a fraud with baseless accusations because she knew he'd _bust his ass_ to prove her wrong. Then she simply had to lie in wait until he got sloppy and reckless—which he always does when his ego is challenged. When the moment was right, she just turned the tables and beat him at his own game.

For a moment, he can only see red. He rises to his feet, clenching his fists. Felicity only smiles like a cat who ate a canary, sweeping past him. When she brushes her shoulder against his, Oliver grabs her arm, pulling her into an unused conference room. She yelps as he pushes her against the adjacent wall, swallowing as he reaches over to lock the door.

For the life of him, Oliver has no idea what he intends to do with her. She's humiliated him, showed him up, and nearly exposed him as a fraud. Yet as he shoves Felicity against the wall, parts of him stand up and take notice that really _shouldn't_ be noticing.

When she speaks, her voice is sin and honey that goes straight down to his groin. "May I help you with something, Mr. Queen?" she asks, and he nearly groans. She has no idea the things he'd love her to help him with right now. He wraps his hand around her throat, and she only keeps her eyes locked on his.

He could absolutely strangle her.

He could definitely kiss her.

Part of him wants to kill her.

Another part wants to do other, sinful things to her until she screams his name.

He could do either. Maybe both.

Instead Oliver pushes her into the wall until he can feel her breath against his chin. He strokes her neck as a caress, debating whether or not he should kiss her. Or whether she'd _let_ him. Something about Felicity's ragged breaths and dilated pupils makes him think she just might. "If you want a war, Miss Smoak," he growls out in a dark voice that makes her shiver, "I'll give it to you." It isn't the _only_ thing he wants to give to her right now.

"Good," she spits back, her voice darker than usual. He needs her to stop talking. Or maybe he needs her to find other uses for that wicked little mouth. "Maybe it will actually be a challenge when I win next time." She leans up to whisper, "I don't know what kind of women you're used to playing with, but I should warn you." Suddenly her mouth is on his earlobe. When she bites down, Oliver groans. Against his ear, she whispers, "I play dirty."

In a fluid motion, he has her legs wrapped around his waist. Felicity lets out a cry at the sudden movement, but it quickly turns into something darker as he kisses the junction between her neck and shoulder. "Thank God," he whispers against it.

She shoves against his chest, but instead of pushing him away, she tilts his head back to meet her eyes. "I hate you," she declares with venom. At the same time, she pulls his tie loose, throwing it over his shoulder.

"A mutual feeling," Oliver growls back, pushing her skirt higher up her thighs.

"You're an arrogant, narcissistic charlatan," she spits, undoing the first two buttons of his shirt.

"You're a vindictive, self-righteous harpy," he counters, running his hands along her thighs.

Her pupils go wide as she whispers against his jaw, "I'd give my left arm to have you on top of me right now."

He leans down to whisper against her cheek, "I'd give mine to be inside you right now."

She pulls his head back as he reaches for her.

When they kiss, it's an explosion. They simply combust all at once. It isn't gentle or sweet or tentative. The wall shakes as he slams her against it as she pushes her tongue into his mouth. Her fingers tighten on the hair at the nape of his neck while he grips her hips so tight she'll probably have bruises.

It's hell.

It's heaven.

Fire and damnation. Desire and temptation. All rolled into one.

They have to break away to catch their breath, but Felicity isn't finished with him. She pushes aside his collar to suck on the place between his neck and shoulder. He moans under her touch, but he manages to elicit one of his own when his hand flattens over her chest and squeezes.

Oliver carries her to the conference table, practically throwing her on top of it. As he takes off his suit coat, he's greeted with one of the best sights of his life. Her legs splay apart, and with her dress hiked up around her waist, her panties are on full display, covered in flying purple elephants. That shouldn't be a turn on, but somehow it still manages to make his pants tighter.

She leans forward on her elbows to glare at him. "If you tell anyone about this," she growls in a voice that does nothing for his tight-pants problem, "I'll castrate you."

"I don't plan to advertise that I'm desperate," he snaps at her. Oliver sends a chair sliding across the floor as he joins her. He pulls her to the edge of the table, wrapping her legs around him again. This time she makes contact right where he needs her, and they both groan.

As she reaches between them to unbutton his pants, he leans down to grit out against her jaw, "If you tell anyone about this, I'll ruin your career. Make sure you _never_ work as a consultant again."

Felicity applies a little pressure of her own, albeit with her hands. For a moment, Oliver sees stars. "I don't usually tell people about my regrets," she counters, crashing her mouth to his again. His lip burns with the sudden amount of force, but he's far more concerned about her hands to really care.

When they finally break apart, he means to tell her that she'll have _no_ regrets about what he's going to do to her. Instead, it manages to come out as, "Do you want to have dinner?" He stops to catch his breath. "After this, I mean."

"With _you?_ " she scoffs. Oliver braces himself for the rejection. "Yeah. _A lot_." She pulls his shirt loose from his pants, working on the buttons with shaky hands. "But you're paying. If I have to spend time in your company, I at least deserve a free meal."

Reaching for the zipper at the side of her dress, he counters, "You aren't exactly the best person to spend a night with, either." Her mouth goes back to his neck again as her hands fumble for the zipper on his pants. He's probably going to have a hickey, but right now that's the _least_ of Oliver's concerns. Right now his focus is slipping a hand into her dress. The feel of her skin is better than the cutout in her dress could have offered. "I don't hate you, you know," he whispers between ragged breaths.

"I know. I—" Felicity breaks off in a cry as he slips his free hand between them. "I don't hate you, either." She pushes his shirt off his shoulders before shifting under him. Maybe she _is_ going to be the death of him—just not in the way he thought. But what a way to go. "Now shut up and use that mouth of yours for something useful."

His next words manage to come out as a promise: "Anything you want."


End file.
